Dreaming of a Butterfly
by TalkingMime
Summary: Question: Am I a man dreaming I am a butterfly or a bowling ball dreaming I am a plate of sashimi?, Doreen, Chrono Trigger. Serge ponders his identity and reality. Is he dreaming he is Lynx or is it really the other way around?


Dreaming of a Butterfly

TalkingMime09

Disclaimer: I don't own _Chrono Cross_ or the quote about the butterfly.

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I remember Leena and I used to just sit in talk at the beach for hours when we were younger. That was when we were still fourteen or fifteen, a few years back, while we struggled with emotion and the horror that was hormones. I don't remember everything we said beneath those darkened skies, but I know we talked. We talked about a lot of things—just about everything, actually—like those stars watching over us, and the voice of the ocean. We wondered about life, gossiped about the villagers, and debated humanity's role on our planet.

I'll always remember that she loved history; she would just go on and on about the wars on the mainland between the mystics and the humans, or the ancient kingdom of Zeal. Every time she got started on a topic, her eyes would light up like two sparkling emeralds. And I know this sounds cheesy, but I always thought they were smiling at me. It would be a lie to say that I don't miss that feeling of comfort. We were so much more carefree then.

Of course, my mother was delighted. Since I had always found an excuse to neglect my studies she figured that if I spent enough time with Leena, her passion of history would rub off on me. She'd love having Leena over so much that every now and then I think she forgot that she even had a son. I think my mother secretly hoped that we'd grow up together and end up marrying each other or something, but I know if I asked her that now, she'd deny it. But I really could have learned a lot from Leena, if I had ever bothered to pay attention to names, dates, or places. That was a long time ago though, lost far away in the dream I had once called reality. I can no longer say for sure if any of that even happened.

Leena had this quote she really liked though, by one of those old dead philosopher guys from the ancient Zeal Kingdom. It went something like, "Am I a man dreaming I am a butterfly, or a butterfly dreaming I am a man?"

My first reaction of what I thought that sounded like could be summed up nicely in three words: insect angst session. Needless to say, I didn't take the quote seriously; much less ponder its deeper meaning. I never told Leena that though, because by that time, she had begun getting familiar with her infamous frying pan of doom, though I suppose that was perhaps a bit heartless of me to simply dismiss the topic entirely. Maybe "heartless" is too strong of a word, but that was what I felt like every time I waved her off. Leena would have this look of disappointment on her face, as if she had been holding a hand out to me, hoping I'd take it so she could pull me out of the abyss of ignorance and apathy, and I had turned away. In hindsight, I regret having dismissed all of that excited chattering so quickly.

I don't know why I suddenly thought of her last night. I've known her since I was born, but I can't say her name even crossed my mind in the other world after I met Kidd. But as I lay in the grass, taking in the familiar scent of home, I peered at the stars above and wondered perhaps if someone up there was watching over me—my father perhaps. My thoughts began to wander as I brooded over the injustices of everything, of having nearly drowned, of loosing my father, of being ripped from the comforts of my home, of being turned into Lynx, of Fate, of life, of reality. Memories began to rush back into me in a flood of emotion and mixed together in an ocean of chaos.

Among these memories, I heard Leena's voice calling out to me, reaching out to me again. But now, it sang louder and clearer in my head than ever had before. Realization struck me as clearly as a message from above, setting my distressed thoughts back on path—and suddenly I understood.

Who was I? Serge, maybe. Or was I Lynx?

What sets reality aside from everything else? Does everything else even exist beyond the minds of dreamers? What was reality? And how was I to know if it even exists? Was this a dream?

Surely this dream isn't anything as pleasant as a butterfly.

Since that voice began calling me and I blacked out on Opassa Beach, I've been telling myself that I was dreaming. I was convinced that none of this was real, and despite all that has happened, a part of me still is. But as each day ends, that part of me grows smaller. And as each night passes, belief transforms into a feeble thread of hope. A single thought haunts me, that perhaps I was mistaken. No one can deny reality, and perhaps this existence is reality. Perhaps, reality is telling me that I have been dreaming seventeen years of a blue-haired boy.

I wonder how many of my companions are dreams and how many are dreamers. How many of them ponder at night, wishing for another existence?

I've seen Kidd stare up at the skies at night. Maybe she was praying for someone.

One night I caught her crying silently to herself. It was the first night of winter, and despite the archipelago's tropical weather, the nights were getting cold. So we decided that we would begin keeping a fire going throughout the night and take turns tending to it.

Kidd had just come over to wake me up because it was my turn to watch the flames. No words were exchanged. She just shook me gently awake and motioned towards the flames. I couldn't see her face in the darkness, so I just nodded and sat up with my back against a log.

She had lay down on opposite side of the campfire and stared up at the sky. From my position, I couldn't tell if she was awake or not. As my eyes began to adjust to the fire's faint glow, I noticed teardrops rolling off the sides of her cheek. This only lasted a minute before her breathing began to slow and steady, confirming that she had indeed fallen asleep.

I didn't say anything about it the next morning, and she was just as energetic and cheerful as ever. But sometimes, I would watch her at night in the flames' soft light. I still wonder why she was crying and who she was crying for.

But the reason I was drawn to her was that I don't think she knows who she is. I could tell that she built her own life and constructed her own walls around her. She didn't seem to have ever had a guardian—she was just that free spirited.

That ancient philosopher must have spent forever, searching for his identity. I wonder if he considered that he might be both at once. Could the dreamer be the dream? By the same token, is it possible that this dream both is and isn't reality? Ultimately, no one can truly differentiate which existence was real and which was a dream. The line between reality and everything else is thin, so who is to judge what reality is?

I don't know, and I don't know who I am. I am not Lynx, not Serge, but myself. And who's that?

I am a butterfly dreaming I am a man. I am a panther dreaming I am an adolescent. Maybe if I dream hard enough, this will no longer be a dream. There's always hope that one day I'll wake up.

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Author's Note: In_ Chrono Trigger_, if you talk to Doreen in Enhasa the Zeal kingdom, she will say something along the lines of, "Am I a butterfly dreaming I'm a man or a bowling ball dreaming I'm a plate of sashimi?" This is a reference to a real quote, used in this fic, about a butterfly by Taoist philosopher Chuang Tzu.

Nov 13, 2005; 10:28PM, Sunday night


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